


Push & Pull

by fairyminseok



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M, Prose Poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 20:12:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2520335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairyminseok/pseuds/fairyminseok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yixing is pull, and Jongin is push, and Yixing is soft and everything Jongin is not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Push & Pull

**Author's Note:**

> 5am thoughts, completely un beta'd. I'm sorry for how awful and rushed it is.Title from Comforting Sounds By Mew.

Title: Push & Pull  
Characters: Kai, Lay  
Pairing(s): Kaixing   
Rating: Nc-17  
Genre: Angst, romance,  
Word count: 1540  
Summary:  Yixing is pull, and Jongin is push, and Yixing is soft and everything Jongin is not.

Authors Note: 5am thoughts, completely un beta'd. I'm sorry for how awful and rushed it is.Title from Comforting Sounds By Mew.

The first time they meet, Yixing is full. He is brimming, eyes bright, smiles contagious. Yixing is soft, in every sense of the word. He is warm summer mornings, and quiet fall evenings. He is the foam that tops a latte, a candle shimmering in a dark room. He is the comfort of a parent, and the subtle love of a pet. Yixing is young, and fresh and naïve. Yixing is soft and Yixing is spring, and summer and Autumn.

   The first time they meet, Jongin is empty. He is hollow, eyes dead, smiles non-existent. Jongin is strained, raw, damaged. He is cold bitter mornings, and rushed, distracted evenings. He is the scalding heat of a latte sipped too quickly, a fire waiting to engulf a dark room. He is the bite of an abuser, and the wild rejection of an animal. Jongin is young, and spent, and withered. Jongin is winter, and Jongin is cold.

  The first time they meet Yixing whispers words of promise, words filled with sunlight, and happiness and things far away. Yixing is encouragement, eyes dancing, as he brushes away Jongin’s stray hairs, as he  grips his hand, dizzy with alcohol. Yixing pulls, he pulls softly, but with purpose. He pours himself into Jongin, with wandering hands, and plush lips, and gentle curving hips.

  The first time they meet Jongin is silent, drinking in the world, relishing in a moment of fleeting emotion, a moment of _something._ Jongin is guarded, eyes cast downwards, as he looks anywhere but Yixing’s sparkling eyes, his inviting words. Jongin pushes, he pushes hard, but without purpose. He lets himself be filled temporarily, with panting breaths, and hurried hands, and sharp jawlines.

The second time they meet, Yixing is still full, still brimming, still a flash of promises and words and positivity. Still encouraging, still dancing, still doting. This time, there is no alcohol, no veil of hidden intention. Yixing pulls, softly, but with purpose.

Yet Jongin still pushes, still filled with silence, still void of purpose. He loses himself in Yixing, let’s himself be taken, lets the sounds fall from his lips, lets himself feel the soft press of Yixing inside him. Gentle, even while fucking. Always soft, always Yixing. For a fleeting glimpse, one might believe he is full too, overflowing with positivity, but then the moment is over, climaxes have waned, pushing, lost, empty.

The next time they meet, life has become blurred. Yixing pulls, Jongin pushes, and they tumble through life together, unsure, unaware, and so dangerously close. Yixing doesn’t ask, and Jongin doesn’t answer. Yixing speaks, tone soft, voice always teetering on the edge of singsong, about glamorous things, parties, college, dance. Yixing is a constant, a constant voice, a constant pull, gnawing at Jongin, wanting, needing, loving. But Jongin pushes,  tone harsh, voice always teetering on the edge of cracking, about caverns, and broken hearts, and ruined families. Jongin is fleeting, a fleeting presence, a constant push, gnawing at Yixing, wanting, needing, but broken.

Yixing tries, he tries so hard, but Jongin is damaged, worn down, heavy. Sometimes he laughs, sometimes he sings, but he always pushing. Yixing is pulling too hard, yet too soft, and Jongin has stopped pushing, has stopped wanting, stopped needing, shattering, broken. Jongin screams for help, screams in his dreams, screams with his silence, but kicks, fights, hurts Yixing with his words, with his mind, with himself.

Yixing is desperate. Jongin is the sunset, disappearing over the horizon, and Yixing is chasing, hoping for a few more minutes of light, of time. Yixing no longer pulls, because there is nothing to hold onto. He is a single tear, running down Jongin’s cheek, he is a muttered apology, and a closed door. Yixing is beginning to taste winter, to feel the flames of the fire surround him. Yixing is young,  naïve and wanting. Always wanting.

Yixing is forgiveness, problems sewn over, but not through. Limbs, mouths, fingers, wrapped up in _wanting._ Jongin is need, scrambling for purchase, gripping hair, voice thick with want, hips coming up to meet hips. Jongin is short gasps, and whining demands, and Yixing has stopped pulling. Yixing is nothingness, soft hands wrapping around Jongin’s cock, bringing him to the height of his pleasure. Yixing cloudy November skies, gray and unwelcoming, tired, dull. Yixing is hollow, eyes trailing over Jongin as he softly wipes him clean. Always soft. Yixing is young, and Jongin is young, but they are both ancient, decaying, legs wrapped around each other, wanting, needing, desperation.

Yixing is hollow. Yixing is Jongin, and Jongin is Yixing. They are both hollow shells, stuck together, in a cruel, unforgiving harsh reality. They tumble through life together, and eventually apart. Yixing doesn’t pull, Jongin doesn’t push. They are tired, so ridiculously tired. Jongin is anger, and sorrow, Jongin is apathy, serving customers with silence, going to and from life, flitting in and out of reality, stuck in a routine, a life that is not living. Yixing is a soft breeze, a college dropout, a dancer who no longer dances, waking up as the sun sleeps, stuck in a routine, a life that is not living.  
Yixing is young and Yixing is soft, and Yixing is pale skin, and forced smiles, and unbrushed hair. Yixing is done. He is a final farewell, a tearless face, erased of emotion, no longer wanting, no longer needing. Yixing is gone.

Jongin is young and Jongin is harsh and Jongin is uncaring. He is a feeble attempt at living, a cold, stony face, full of a past too heavy, always wanting, always needing, but Yixing is gone. Jongin is alone.

Somewhere along the lines of being alone, Jongin becomes whole. He becomes suffocated, trapped, filled to the brim with everything, every emotion, every thought, that he hasn’t been filled with for years. He wants, he needs, and he cries. Jongin is four am, and alcohol, and kitchen floors. Jongin is a thunderstorm, a forest fire, crashing, burning, falling.

Jongin pulls, and Yixing pushes. He tries so hard, so so hard, and he just wants, he just needs, but he doesn’t know what he wants, or why, or how. He is a collapsing building, a screaming mind, a never ending burn. Jongin is pain, and Jongin is not soft. Jongin is not Yixing. He is not warm, he is not sunny, he is not full of promises, full of future. Jongin is nothing, and Yixing is everything, and Jongin is desperation, a wolf chasing a prey that is too fast, a boy who cannot swim, floating downstream, thrashing, wailing, fighting.

Jongin cries, he is pain, he is tears, and he wants, still wants, always wants, and this time Jongin loves. But Yixing is pushing, ignoring, putting up a wall. Jongin cries, screams, for help, wandering falling, lost, needing.

Yixing is forgiveness, Yixing is problems talked through, raised voices, pleading sobs, hands fisted into shirts, faces pressed into chests. He is a broken promise, young, fresh and naïve. They are opposites, living life on two sides of a border, always pushing, always pulling, but this time Jongin pulls, and Yixing pulls, and they pull together.

They tumble together through life, but not hollow. They are full, so full, of each other, of words. Full of emotions and thoughts and each other, and so much want. And Yixing wants, and Jongin wants, and Yixing is soft and Yixing is the smell of vanilla and the feel of fleece blankets, and Jongin is no longer dark, no longer un forgiving. Jongin is love, and Yixing is love, and together they are scared. Together they are college applications, and trips to dance studios, locked together, wound together, wanting, needing, loving. They are a promise, and a future, and a home, together. They are a life that is not routine, a life that is living.

Yixing is soft, soft lips, soft skin, soft hair, soft eyes, that are full of love, full of want, soft fingers working Jongin undone, soft words with soft meanings. Yixing is purpose, the end of a long uphill climb, the winning goal, satisfaction. And Jongin is damaged, but Jongin is young, and Yixing is young,  and they are fresh, and no longer naïve. Jongin is harsh, a scalding tongue exploring, needy and desperate. Jongin is thumbs digging into gentle curving hips, bruising, marking, biting. Jongin a tongue dragging over the slit of the one part of Yixing that is not soft. Jongin is nails, and teeth, and Yixing is soft, so soft. They are slow, unhurried, loving, wanting, needing. Together they mold into one, Yixing looking up at Jongin, eyes dark, mouth open, breathing labored, but soft. Jongin pulls, and Yixing pulls, and hands clasp together, eyes lock, hips push forward. Yixing is soft whines, and Jongin’s name sounds so nice when spoken so softly. Hands are somehow tangled into hair, and they are both different, loving, always loving, a push and pull of magnets, they are both so different but so alike.

 

Yixing is full. He is brimming, eyes bright, smiles contagious. He is Jongin’s Summer, Spring and Autumn. He is Jongin’s warm sighing mornings. Yixing pulls, and Jongin falls, and they tumble through life together, one day at a time.  



End file.
